


El Mismo Aire

by corellians_only



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: "show up at their house in the middle of the night" trope, "the i can't sleep" trope, But Mostly Smut, Dirty Talk, F/M, Vaginal Fingering, javi's tight ass jeans(tm), javier is secretly protective, sliiight angst, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corellians_only/pseuds/corellians_only
Summary: You can't sleep, so you head to Javier's house to talk it out. Set late season 1.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	El Mismo Aire

You regret your decision when you hear the key turning in its lock. Prior to this moment, this had seemed like some sort of fever dream in a quasi-reality that didn’t really exist.

The scraping of metal on metal is like a pinch on the thigh in those old movies: stinging and harsh, a terse reminder of your corporeal nature. But the door is opening now. Hazy light spills onto the stoop from his hallway, and you can hear the man muttering as he completes the motion.

 _¿Tienes alguna puta idea de qué hora es, Carrillo?_ the words, muttered dark and slow, leak through the sliver of open space. One hand rests on the door frame, curling around its worn edges, while the other is out of sight, probably fumbling with his pistol.

 _¿Hola?_ you go for humor, lilting your voice upwards in a question to soften the blow. But either he’s shocked or your verbal fist is made of metal, because glinting eyes stare at you for a long moment. Then he speaks again, harsh and guttural and fully awake.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing, wandering the streets at this time of night? Get the fuck in here.” The expletives are nothing new. They adopt a different weight in the middle of the night — the early morning? — they’re pelted at you; they’re rocks thrown into the glass windows of your soul.

And he removes his hand from the woodwork and clasps it around your bicep instead. The contact makes you tense — his hands are so arresting, wrapping themselves almost all the way around toned muscle — but if he notices, he doesn’t care. He’s too busy manhandling you, shoving you behind him so he can lock the doors correctly.

When he’s done, he turns to face you. “What —“ he shakes his head — “what’s going on?” He leans back against the door. You catch the dull gleam of his gun as he gestures, and you trace the familiar movement with your eyes. “Well?” he prompts again. His face is still half-hidden by shadows — the kitchen light only goes so far — but you see the outline of his chin jerk slightly. You imagine he’s raising an eyebrow, studying you, watching.

“I’m sorry, Javier. I…I couldn’t sleep.” You press two fingers to your temple, just above your eyes, and shake your head. Usually he’s the one stumbling into your apartment in the depths of witching hours, pressing whiskey-tinged kisses against your skin.

“No?” The word could be in Spanish, or English. You can never tell with him. But it snatches you out of your reverie and places you here, on this grimy tile in a shoddily lit apartment in Colómbia that smells of whisky and cigarettes with Agent Peña assessing your every move.

“Well,” he heaves himself off of the door, “come tell me about it over a drink.”

He leads and you trail him, noting the way his jeans fit differently without his coffee-toned leather belt. “Do you own anything other than jeans, Javi? Jesus.”

Javier turns around, smiling as he escorts you into the small space. “Why, what’s it to you?”

“Hey, I’m concerned. Sleeping in jeans is the most uncomfortable thing in the world. I need to know I’m not working with a masochist.”

You hop on the counter. He’s so funny, here. More at ease. And yet it’s an unsteady peace: one marked by the gun now hooked into his waistband and the way his eyes never stop scanning the room. The outside world is always clawing at him, scratching his arms and legs and ankles, trying to draw him back.

He shakes his head, dark hair ruffled by sleep. “Here.” While you’ve been ruminating he’s opened the fridge, taking out two bottles, and swept dirty utensils in the sink. Javier hands you a beer, some label you’ve seen at the mercado but never purchased. The bottle is cool and sweaty in your palm; you take a sip and nod in thanks.

“So. What’s up? Did Murphy call you? Or Carrillo?” Javier pops open his own and stands across from you. He fiddles with the label, condensation dipping into his skin in light rivulets that catch the glare of his hazy lamp.

You shake your head. “No, no.” A sigh, and you raise your head to meet his eyes for the first time since you arrived. They are a molten brown: liquid enough to swim in but hot enough to burn. He regards you steadily, his silence an encouragement of its own. “I’m just so fucking tired, Javier.” It’s all pushed together, like the sentiment something shameful. Like the words need to be strung together, all present and accounted for, in order for it to be okay. In order for you to breathe again.

“Of?” He knows. You know. You see it in each other every day — the way you drink coffee instead of water and he’s swapped coffee for something stronger. Murphy’s worn down, too, of course, but he has Connie. You two only have each other.

”So fucking tired of this.” Your hands have joined the conversation, puncturing the open space in front of you. “And _los Narcos, y pues todas las días son igual, Javi.”_ The tirade halts when a torrent of liquid spills from the glass bottle in your hand, no doubt disturbed by your agitated gestures.

 _“Goño.”_ the half-forgotten word falls from your mouth easily. You like the way it feels, all silvery and solid in your mouth; you think you should say it more often.

Javier asks you about the unfamiliar phrase while you clean up the mess, bare knees resting on relentless tile. He’s curious despite la puta hora. And he asks again, almost whining, when he thinks you’re ignoring him.

“Shit.” You provide the translation easily, head bent toward the hard surface. Is there anything left to pick up? You can’t tell, but you run the rag over the area once more anyway. 

_“¿Que?”_

_“Goño es mierda.”_ Rising, you twist behind him to place the now-sopping rag, swollen and stained, in the sink. “It’s a phrase my parents used.” The rag meets metal with a muted reverberation. You stare at the thing. “Regional slang, I think.”

From the corner of your eye you catch his nod, and you are still fixated on the sodden rag. The stain has spread from the tip to its center and seeps onto the leaden metal. plata o plomo. at this rate you will get neither. the cartels have spread all over the world, like the beer on the rag, in the sink, in this filthy kitchen. Because even when, or if, Colómbia gets its goño together there will always be another starving country with corrupt politicians to take its place.

Javier has shifted. He’s on the opposite side of the sink now. An exposed forearm rests against the counter; fingers run across each other, level with his chest. It’s distracting, but only just. Only enough for it give you something to focus on besides those probing eyes that can pick you apart all too well. “Look,” he starts, “let me see if I can get you some time off, _mi florita._ Some home leave.” Javi shrugs, and for the first time you register how the navy of his trademark button-down compliments his skin. “It would be good for you.”

“No. Thanks for the offer though.” And you look to the side, at the scratched cabinets. All the better to avoid him, and his hands, and everything that makes you feel like you can’t breathe again.

“What?” He has taken another step closer and you can smell the cigarettes on his breath, nearly sewn into the dyed material of his shirt.

 _“No quiero ir.”_ You shake your head at his objection. _“No quiero ir!”_ your voice sounds tinny, like the key signature was changed without your knowing. “What good will it do? Huh? Tell me.” You step closer, level with the hands that linger near the undone buttons at the collar of his shirt.

“What good would it do when I would spend every hour, hell, every minute, thinking about you and Murphy and Carrillo, trying to make do without me? Fuck,” you scoff, the puff of air scooting flyaway hair off your face. “It’s not that I’m important but we can’t afford to lose a man right now! And what if something happened to you and I wasn’t there, because I was off in a country that actually has fucking A/C? Huh? Do you know what that would do to me?”

The two of you are chest to chest, now, having somehow come closer during your display. _“Díme, Javi. ¿Sabes?”_ you repeat. The whisper tastes cherry-red in your mouth, sweet with indignant insistence.

Everything seems to still for several moments, or perhaps it is just one. Actions, incidents, they register in singularities: the lock of hair that’s come to rest over his forehead, begging to be swept away. The way his Adam’s apple twitches when he swallows. Hands that are so close yours, skin still stained with ink and gun grease.

You realize the error in your risk assessment as shadows wax and wane across his steady gaze, but it is already too late. Javier Peña has become both your asset and your agent and you have let him.

But Javier is taking your face in his hands and bending his head down to meet your lips, all smokey fiery heat. Licking insistently, repeatedly, at the seam of your lips, you feel him smile when you grant him entrance with a gasp. His tongue works itself against yours as you run your hands up his chest, fiddling with his collar and finally resting against neck. Javi kisses you the way you always imagine the wives and girlfriends of Bogotá kiss their policemen: methodical and thorough, devouring you with teeth and tongue and clutching you so tight it would hurt if he wasn’t sighing into your mouth.

You pivot in a fluid movement, never breaking the kiss, and shift so that your back is pressed against the counter. Javier immediately adjusts, altering his stance and pressing a thigh between your legs. Calloused, careworn fingers drift under your t-shirt, skimming over skin just lightly enough to make you whine in frustration and press down on his thigh.

He swears when you do so, pulling away from your mouth to kiss up your jaw and swirl his tongue around the shell of your ear.

 _“Mierda, Javier.”_ The exclamation, though whispered, screams, with shards of exposed energy rippling in the small space as you move against him, grinding yourself against the heavy denim.

Javi’s lips find your pulse point and you gasp, rocking into him, hands curling around his hair. Encouraged, he repeats the movement and you whine, feeling the slick between your folds seep through the thin fabric of your running shorts.

“That’s right, baby,” he urges you in slurred English. _“Toma lo que necesites —”_ Javier’s praise is cut off with a soft grunt that comes as your hands crawl under his shirt and you press your chest to his.

His hands go to your hips, stilling their movements. Javier pulls your shirt over your head and chucks it aside. The absence of your shirt exposes him to new skin, and he takes advantage of it, kissing your collarbone, edging downwards towards your chest. His lips feels like ice-fire, like you are coming undone as you are waking up.

“Javi, please.” Your moan and you throw your head back, arching against the counter and clutching the blue shirt to pull him closer. He’s gripping you so tightly, still, one hand on your hip. The other rests on the small of your back, pressing you against his thigh.

“Fuck,” Javi groans again, when he feels your wetness through the denim. “You’re soaked, _querida_.” The words are taut and razor-sharp, ragged as they fall across the bruises that are rapidly forming across your chest.

You become greedy in return, needing him, needing his skin under you. Fingers — the ones that are so good at pulling triggers — work at his buttons, throwing the shirt open and tracing over the softness that protects his muscle and the organs that keep him alive. One hand drops to brush against hardening cock. Javi muffles his moan in your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed and mustache tickling your bare skin. Pleased, you do it again, rewarded with hitched intake of breath on his end; the shivering exhale coats your bare shoulder and travels down your spine.

After the third time, he takes hold of your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his you look up at him and he looks at you, hair mussed, eyes bright, flips flushed.

_“¿Estás bien, Javier?”_

Fuck, he almost comes at the sound of your voice — soft and malleable, spewing from swollen lips. “Bedroom. _Ahora_.” And he picks you up, bridal-style, holding you to him as he takes the few steps to the small space across the hall. You take advantage of your positioning, letting yourself nip at his jaw and around the shell of his ear. A yelp escapes you when his grip impossibly tightens.

 _“Cuidate,”_ Javi threatens, breath hot and voice low. “Keep that up or I’ll drop you and I’ll take you right here on the floor.”

“Oh God, Javi —“ you stutter, pressing your forehead to his temple, resisting the urge to buck your hips into nothing.

The two of you have crossed the threshold now. Weak rays of moonlight, offset by the city lights, peek through the window coverings. It’s just enough to catch his features, softening them even as he lays you down in motion heavy with intent.

“Would you have liked that?” Javi wonders, his hands ghosting over your body he settles over you. “If I had just fucked you on the counter?” One finger slips beneath your shorts, pressing against your heat. You bite your lip, eyes blown wide. “Or against the wall, hmmm?” A second finger joins the first, mixing with your slick.

“Javi…”

“I asked you a question, _querida_.” He leans over you, the unbuttoned shirt limp and wrinkled against your stomach, draping over the stretches and scars that grace your skin. He continues to simply press into you, letting you drip onto him.

You look up into his darkened eyes, just inches away from yours, and nod. “Yes.” Javi arches an eyebrow. “Yes, I would let you fuck me against the wall, Javi.”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, a smile playing about his mouth, slipping both of his fingers inside of you without warning. “ _Mierda,_ you’re so tight,” he grunts, meeting your lips for kiss. It’s rough and tainted with adrenaline as he works himself into you even deeper.

You’re not quite sure how he ended up in charge when only minutes before he had been at your mercy, but that is why Javier Peña is the best DEA agent in all Colómbia. He knows what people want before they know themselves. Forget _la cartel de Cali,_ forget Escobar. Here is when he does his best work, licking you open with his mouth as he curls into you, re-learning the way that tug at his hair and arch into his touch.

It’s then that he pauses, withdrawing his fingers. You gasp at the sensation of his fingertips gently , clenching around nothing and positively aching with need. “ _Javi, que ha —“_ but he’s one step ahead of you, as always, slipping the blue button down off his shoulders and hooking his thumbs around your waistband, waiting for your nod of confirmation before tugging everything away and leaving you bare beneath him. His pants are next, and you laugh at the audible sigh of relief that escapes his lips when he tosses them to the side.

“Bet you’re wishing you wore something else, aren’t you?” you tease, carding through his unruly locks as he leans over you once more. “Something more…roomy? I told you only a crazy person wears jeans like that.”

 _“Calláte,”_ Javi instructs, an edge to his voice, pushing into you in a sudden movement that steals your breath away. _“Es lo que quieres?”_ he taunts, pressing deeper into you, achingly slow, as if to make a point.

“Javi,” a moan escapes you and you nod, grabbing at his impossibly broad shoulders. “Fuck me, please.”

He complies with your request at last, thrusting into you at a punishing speed. He, this, the two of you: so surreal and fragmented in its intensity, just like everything else that’s been built into tonight. Life is somehow more real with him on his unmade bed where he calls you _querida_ than it will be in a few hours when the city under siege rankles against its chains.

 _“Miráme,”_ you hear Javi murmur in your ear. You do, opening your eyes with difficulty to stare into his chocolate depths because you believe it is the only thing that will save you. His face is awash with wonder, gazing at you like you are something precious and whole, and all the other things that you have convinced yourself that you not since you arrived in Colómbia. 

And then you gripping him even, biting into his shoulder to muffle your broken moan as stars flash before your eyes. Javi guides you through it before following you over the edge, his hands heavy on your hips.

The two of are all heat and sweat and slick when he pulls out. _“Mira,”_ Javi says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’re a mess.”

“Says you.” You catch the glint in his eyes as he rolls them, temporarily vacating the bed in search of water and a cigarette and washcloth. Glasses klink and you hear him swear from the kitchen, but he seems to return without visible injury a few moments later, just as you’re settling in on what somehow has become ‘your’ side of the bed.

Javi seems to smile at the sight, but in the hazy moonlight, you’re not sure. He places the glasses and his cigarettes on the small table on ‘his’ side, and the sheets rustle as he slides close to you. He starts running the cloth up and down your body. It’s scratchy, but warm and you can feel the weight of his fingers through the fabric. Humming contently, you close your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder.

 _“¿Todo esta bien, Javi?”_ you ask drowsily, the words heavy on your tongue.

 _“Sí, querida.”_ He wraps arm around you, letting your head rest on his bare chest and tangling his hands in your hair. _“No te preocupes para nada.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was my first Javi fic, and I had a lot of fun writing it. I'm over on tumblr @/corellians-only to chat about fics + Javi if you want to say hi :)


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